Where the Shadows Lie
by Marquesa de Santos
Summary: She just wants to be safe. She doesn't want a knight in shining armor; she needs the man masquerading as monster to defeat the monsters masked as men. Non-con, graphic depictions of violence, and very dark. Rumbelle.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

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_**Trigger warning for non-consensual sexual violence**_

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_A strand of her mahogany hair is caught betwixt his fingers. Shivering deliciously, she turns her head into his hand. "Hello," she whispers, giving his palm a dry bite and nuzzling into it. She likes this room. She likes this library, the giving of it having been this morning. A room to christen, he'd said. She had thought he meant champagne. This is much better. _

The screams echoing from the walls didn't sound like her. They didn't. Not nearly enough like anything she had ever been; they were the sounds of the monsters that invaded her body and her soul and told her they would purify what the monster had defiled. But they grunted, and she screamed their rage out into the room. She'd never fucked the monster. She'd never made love to the man, either, but they knew that already. The blood they had taken from her was proof enough. She wanted to die. The younger one was over her, groaning as though this were good and right, the older cleric leaning in the corner. Of course he'd been first. He was always first.

They'd proven her innocence, so why didn't they just stop? They called her Princess of the Whores and laughed and laughed…

_He always take her on her back; always, so that he can see her eyes. His fingers and nails are never used, ever, because he wants her whole. Her blood does not excite him. No, he loves her, and he treats her like a treasure. He uses his mouth to kiss and nip and it's always on her. His mouth is sacred and lovely and one doesn't kiss a whore. Kisses are the mark of a lover's touch. _

Her flesh was broken from lashings, hideous, and her back would never be what it was. Their bodies rubbing against it didn't help matters at all. Searing pain like fire licked inside of her and the blood oozed and how could they stand the smell? Rotting flesh and her bile and of course they didn't clean her messes. That would be acknowledging her humanity, and she hadn't been human for a very long time. Belle wondered if papa knew. Surely, he could not. No, papa could not know.

They told her that he knew, though. They told her that he had forsaken her to the Order, but no, he had to have been coerced. _Papa would never do this to her. _

Sometimes, they liked to scrape their fingers against the walls of her sex. It was a deep ache, different, but just as much a violation. The worst part was when they made her come, when her body betrayed her. They would laugh at the blood, laugh as her body reacted and clenched around them or their fingers and she wanted to die. "You like it like this, you whore; you want us inside your quim."

She wept.

Then, one day, the dream changed. Her waking hours with her monsters became easier to bear and her dreams continued in a steady progression. Ofttimes, in her most desperate moments, she believed it was real; Rumpelstiltskin had saved her. Her mind mocked her with false hope, for Rumpelstiltskin was far too much of a coward to ever come rescue her. In the new dreams, he never touched her save to change bandages, or to bathe her chastely. There was the occasional tucking of a curl behind her ear, but none of the heated escapes.

Instead, there were stings as he dabbed the astringent unto her back. Whenever she hissed, he would pat her hair and whisper that she was safe; she was free. His kindnesses in these moments broke her in a way the clerics never could; She would scream at him and cry and tell him that she loved him, damn it. Why did he send her away into the hands of those bastards? Why didn't he save her, and why couldn't he protect her?

The dream Rumpelstiltskin had no excuses. He said nothing, and so Belle soon tired of it. Rather, she wondered what had happened to her pleasanter dreams.

"Why don't you touch me anymore?" She asked one night as the dream commenced. She always descended to these as though she were waking, and he would always be there. She was angry her escape had become a monotonous healing of her wounds and the berating of her spinner. This wasn't right; she wanted her fantasies at least.

"I've never touched you more in my life, Belle." His bitter scoff and the timbre of his voice brought her up short. No. It wasn't possible. It was another trick! Another ploy to break her, to make her soul shatter, it must have been! But she finally knew what she had long suspected and wished for and denied to be truth.

"You're real. This isn't a dream."

The realization made her numb and flushed all at once, and she began to cry. He had seen her. He had seen her broken body. He knew what she was, that she had been broken and bruised and violated.

He was silent.

"You came for me." The sobs wracked her body, and as she curled in on herself, her back crackled and the blood seeped through. She could feel it and did not care.

Creaking leather announced his kneeling beside her. "Yes, of course I came, Belle." He wiped the tears from her eyes, his black nails smooth and cool against her swollen eyelids. Having begun, the tears seemed they would never stop, and he sat there with her, smoothing her tangled curls and holding her lightly to not aggravate her wounds.

"I'm sorry, love; I'm sorry. I'll protect you. They'll never get you again, darling."

But they would. Every night. They would worm their way into her dreams every night, and that was something from which he could never protect her.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

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**Trigger warning for sexual assault**

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She could feel his blue eyes following her around the room, undressing her in his mind. It was similar to the way the clerics had looked upon her when they were still trying to make her confess her sin. It made her skin crawl and the scars on her back hummed with the memory of pain. No, she knew what that look meant. The man had positioned himself near the door leading to the kitchen. She mumbled an apology and tried to pass, but his hand reached out and squeezed her breast.

Rumpelstiltskin was between them in a flash of purple smoke, snarling. Belle couldn't breathe from fear and outrage. Memories assaulted her, and she only vaguely heard Rumpelstiltskin hissing, "You will not enter my fortress and come near what is mine. You even look at her again and I will kill you." The rest was lost to her. She knew only the man was gone and the door to the dining hall closed, leaving her with only Rumpelstiltskin and her thoughts.

"Belle. Belle, I need you to breathe," he urged. He set her upon a sturdy chair and got her some water. "I must go back to deal with him, but you've got to breathe." He snapped his fingers and the knives in the room disappeared. "Relax," he begged, and what a strange sight, to see the Dark One begging. Leaving with a backward glance, he shut the door on her.

But she couldn't. She couldn't sit here and not listen. She wanted to watch Rumpelstiltskin kill him. The morbid thought frightened her no more. She'd wished many her attackers dead in the past six months. Had it already been six months since her freedom? It didn't feel like it. She felt imprisoned, still, though now it was her mind that made the cage. She slid off the chair, hurrying to the door and opening it an inch.

"I did not mean to offend, Dark One," he postured. Of course not. Such men were cowards, targeting only the weak and powerless. Bile rose to her throat.

"And yet you did." The stone in his voice gave her hope. "Tread carefully, Lord Gregory," he sang, "for your next words may be your last."

"There is a woman in the village who has caught my eye. She won't let me near her, though, and I need to get my hands on her, else I'll go mad." Belle wanted to scream. She swallowed the horror down her throat. Rumpelstiltskin would not allow such a thing. He would not.

"I cannot make one act outside of her will." Rumpelstiltskin was steepling his fingers, she could hear it. His voice had taken on that contemplative timbre, and yes, he was thinking. _Patience_, she told herself. Bitterness was a cruel master, but then slaves do not choose the burden of servitude.

"Oh, need she will at all?"

Belle almost revealed herself when she heard Rumpelstiltskin answer, "There's just the little matter of the price." She fled, her soft slippers making no sound on the stone floor. Her shuddering gasps of grief, however, echoed down the length of the hall as she left the kitchen, running to the ballroom and locking the door. A hundred images of herself reflected back at her.

Seeing herself in the mirror helped to solidify her existence. She had asked Rum to enchant a mirror so that she could remind herself she was real without the intrusion of magic, for the mirrors in her dreams shifted like sand to reveal the woman in black, the clerics in black, a shadow of what she had been.

He had enchanted an entire room for her.

Locking the door behind her, she hid herself in her corner behind the mirror shielding the pile of blankets. He had not teased her when he first found her here, wrapped only in a throw. No, he had provided her with furs and quilts and all manner of warmth in which to cocoon herself. Furious that she should think fondly of him even now, she fell upon nest and pounded her fists against it. How dare he? How could he do this? How could he help such a monster? How could he let the man touch her; not even let her fight for herself? Not even give her the chance to fight back? She exhausted herself, after a while, and fell asleep. It was an exhausted slumber, full of moving images and a vague dread that she wouldn't be able to explain upon awakening.

She awoke with a start when he came knocking at the door. Yawning and stretching, she knew only that she would not open it, not for him. He would, of course. He would unlock the door and pretend everything was fine, and she would hate him. Oh, she would hate him with the ire of a thousand wildfires. Its was not a brave or kind thought, but then Belle had not been brave or kind in a long while. She'd lost her sense of self to the sleeplessness and the headaches; she barely recognized herself anymore. Could she go on much longer with such little sleep? There had to be something beyond the agonizing fear and anger and hatred. There had to be something beyond this. Today had been so good. She'd been able to smile, languishing in the sunshine. They'd done some gardening. He'd read to her. Morning had promised loveliness, but afternoon tea had brought that selfish horrible and revealed the monster that hid behind her beloved roses and books.

And there it was, the click of the lock and "Leave me alone," she growled as his heeled boots clicked towards her. He had good reason, she knew, not to respect her locked doors. She liked having the boundary, liked knowing that no one could find her, but she had abused his trust that one time with the kitchen knife in this very room. She wasn't even allowed the privilege of chopping the damn vegetables, and he hadn't promised she'd be allowed to at any point in the near future. He told her he had risked too much to let her die, and even if she didn't want him anymore, he still loved her. He always would. Empty meaningless words, she thought sometimes.

"What's wrong, Belle?" He approached her slowly, like a wounded animal. "I've been searching for you since mid-day."_ How dare he patronize me._ Sullen silence met him as she huddled further against the walls. Tracings of dried tears were visible even in the dusky light, she knew, but she kept her face free from expression, fixing her gaze on a distant mirror.

"Belle, please, why won't you talk to me?" He tried, extending a hand that she was free to take or refuse. The subsequent eruption was not planned, and yet once she began, she could think of no other way to respond. She swiftly rose and smacked his hand away, dizziness overcoming her as she used the wall for support. Damnit.

"Because you didn't protect me and save me when it would have made a difference! Because you were too late for me, and you still condemned that poor woman to this awful existence!" She roared, towering before the dizziness and sorrow overcame her. She shrank to the floor, a crumpled rag of a woman. "How could you let him? How could you help him?" Choking sobs echoed in the room and Rumpelstiltskin knelt beside her.

"He won't hurt her, dearest," he began. "The price was too high for him. The loss of his virility in exchange for her helplessness. It was too high. He didnt take it, love. He didn't take it." She allowed herself to lean against him, her hot tears sliding down his leather vest as she felt the enormity of her foolishness. Of course he wouldn't help him. Rumpelstiltskin had saved her. Of course he had not condemned another woman to this half-life.

"I hated you. I thought you were going to let her be hurt, and I didn't know what to think." Her great shuddering breaths interrupted every few words or so, and she felt disgusting and pathetic. His hesitance in embracing her was understandable; she had pushed him away often enough.

"No, dearie," he crooned, patting her hair and rocking her like a child. "Never."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

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**Trigger warning: Mentions of extreme violence**

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What had possessed her, neither could begin to say. She had found him in his room, broom and rag slipping from her hands and hitting the floor. He shouldn't have been there. It was late afternoon; he was never in his room at this time. For a long moment, they had stared.

Then she lunged.

Pinning him against the wall in a harsh kiss, she had relished in his hands tangling in her hair, pulling her against him. This was right, this was good, and besides, a kiss was harmless. Spells enough he had found in case she should kiss him again, spells to protect the darkness that had consumed his soul, and he had told her. Gods above, he had told her yesterday, and she had spent the time between the confession and now wringing her hands. She could kiss him. He would not lose his power; he would be able to protect her still.

It was only when she felt him harden against her belly that she knew this would not end with a mere kiss. This was something much more, and she needed much more, and yes, she would fuck him and perhaps her nightmares would be replaced by the feel of him. She felt vaguely sick, and yet when he stopped her hands from pulling down on his trousers, she whined.

"Belle," he gasped, pushing her body away from him. His pupils had overtaken his impossibly large irises, and so she knew he wanted her. It was not that he didn't; the alternative was unacceptable. "What are you doing?"

Whimpering, she couldn't held when her fingers raked down his chest, dragging against the silk. "Please, please. I want you." It came out in a whisper. If he asked her to stop, she would cry, she knew it. Didn't he want her? She could feel the evidence of his desire. Or was she too broken; did the Dark One crave only the innocence of her past? His proclamations otherwise could be the echo of something he had felt before she had gone away. She was cracked and chipped like his ridiculous teacup. He loved the teacup, surely he could love her, too? When his mouth found hers, coaxing her with his tongue as he melded their bodies together, she knew she had won. Of course he wanted her. Of course. How silly that she should doubt that for even a moment. She liked this, whatever he was doing, this nibbling on her lower lip that was somehow so different and so similar to a kiss, she wanted to cry. This was what intimacy was supposed to be, this aching sweetness in her heart that had nothing to do with the aching between her thighs.

She breathed his name, and when he growled hers in response, the sound of it soothed her anxiety. She couldn't tell why, then, when she was atop him on the bed and neither had a shred of clothing between them, it started to feel wrong. "Are you sure?" He asked, stroking her cheek. He seemed dazed, but so happy; seeing his face helped, of course. When she nodded and his hands wandered to her breasts, she sat, taking him inside herself and oh! His face when she did so, his happy little exhale. Just the sight of him made her walls convulse, sharp and brief around him in almost unbearable pleasure. Oh, this, this was how it was supposed to be. She wanted to cry as she matched his slow thrusts. Slow. The fact that Rumpelstiltskin should be slow with her surprised her. His hands on her hips steadied her when she lost the rhythm, warm and solid as his mouth gaped open and he mewled with pleasure. His sounds were all soft and warm, and she did not dare speculate as to her own reactions. This felt good in a way it had never had with those creatures of the Order, a deep roiling pleasure that held little shame.

"You're beautiful when you're being fucked," she whispered. It was not something she should have said, but his reaction showed her he was more than fine with it.

It changed into something desperate and hungry. She impaled herself upon him and celebrated his silent frantic cries as his fingers dug into her thighs. This, then, was how it felt to possess the Dark One, she thought as she grinded against him. It was good in a different way, deeper and more primal (though never the base cruelty of the clerics, for this she wanted; this was _nothing like the monsters._

He came before she could, his voice stopping mid-groan before he sighed and his hands reached to trace circles on her lower back. She did not understand the despair that took over. Rolling off of him, she curled on herself and tried to stifle her ridiculous tears. It was not until he followed suit and wrapped his arms around her that he commented on her soundless shuddering. Likely he had not noticed until then… he sat up, terrified.

His voice broke through, unsure and frightened. "Belle, are you alright? Are you alright, Belle; did I hurt you?"

"I'm a whore!" She choked, her mouth wide as a wail stuttered out and tears streamed to the sticky bed sheets. Yes, that was it. That was the source of the wrongness.

"No, no, you're not," he insisted, rubbing at her back. But she knew the truth, even as his hands deliberately did not trace her uneven skin. She knew what she was; mayhap she had not chosen this, but then, who did? She didn't answer, only turning her crisscrossed back to him as her bare feet hung several feet away from the floor and her head slumped forward into her hands.

"Belle, you are not a whore."

"Yes I am!" She screamed. "I am!" They'd even made me perfect for it, she recalled. "Look", she whispered, pointing to an angry red scar on her belly. It had faded somewhat in the last year, but it had healed badly. "I'm not even a real woman anymore, Rumpelstiltskin. I don't even feel like a real person." They had discussed this at length. In removing her autonomy, they had denied her humanity. In forcing her to her pleasure, they had turned her very body against her. But this? This she had yet to discuss with him.

"What?" He asked, confused. "Belle, what they did doesn't change who are. " He said it so sincerely that she could barely stand the sight of him. His nakedness helped, though. The clerics only removed the bare minimum; Rumpelstiltskin was a bare as she. The male organ looked less intimidating, shrunken and wet against a hunched body.

"You don't understand," she screeched. "I can never bare you children, Rumpel. I can never bare anyone any children." she raised her hand before he could interrupt; he needed to listen! "They took it from me. They cut into my belly and they took everything. There was so much blood. I wanted to die. I thought I would." Her voice tapered into almost nothing, her screaming having given way to dullness. "Said they couldn't risk another monster in the world. Said it made me the perfect whore and they were right." Had he known? The look on his face… would he throw her out, now? He looked as though he were going to hit her, and she braced herself for the violence. It never came. She was surprised to find him crying and holding her against him.

"I'll kill them. They have suffered, Belle, but I promise you their suffering shall increase hundred fold." This had not been expected. Anger for her, his arms protective, and she felt she was suffocating and flying all at once.

She wanted him to kill them. She wanted to know what he meant by their having suffered, but she was afraid. She just wanted this strange peace, this odd understanding to last. This was nice. It didn't feel wrong. Still, she couldn't shake the knowledge that she could not be what he wanted. For who could love such a broken creature?


End file.
